This year's final poem of the day. Over and out, 2020.
Wildflowers
Footsteps echo
in this chilled room
once so warm.
Missing the sun,
a magpie huddles,
reluctant to hop.
He recalls summer,
the heat on his back
ruffling feathers.
It peeks at times,
this dripping yolk,
holding on to the sky.
And we tread water,
rise like wildflowers
squeezed in across fields,
heads swaying in the breeze.
Buzzing bees stalk us,
admiring our pastel colours,
following our scent for miles
and miles to feed on us.
We are such delicate beauties.
Packed like commuters,
we try to maintain distance,
but we are rooted here,
not walking or turning.
Everything is stationary,
our existence so simple.
Stems blow, petals unfurl.
We furnish spring and summer
with a wealth of colour.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, December 31, 2020
